


so gentle in his view

by ArliaDevi



Series: forty seasons [4]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Bromance to Romance, Canon-Typical Violence, Complicated Relationships, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, He means well tho, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, dubious and non consensual use of axii, geralt uses axii on jaskier, what are feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:21:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25220836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArliaDevi/pseuds/ArliaDevi
Summary: The thing is, Jaskier does nothing wrong. If he had done something wrong, it might have been easier. Geralt could blame him, tell him how he’d always known this would happen, how it was only a matter of time. He could justify his anger, his guilt, his fear. He could say how Jaskier needs to watch where he walks, but the fact is Geralt had walked that stretch of the track only moments ago and had not noticed the bear trap. Not noticed it until he’d heard the rusty mechanisms spring and then Jaskier’s blood-curdling scream.Or,Jaskier steps on a bear trap while accompanying Geralt on a hunt for a Griffin.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: forty seasons [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1672033
Comments: 17
Kudos: 830





	so gentle in his view

The thing is, Jaskier does nothing wrong. If he had done something wrong, it might have been easier. Geralt could blame him, tell him how he’d always known this would happen, how it was only a matter of time. He could justify his anger, his guilt, his _fear_. He could say how Jaskier needs to watch where he walks, but the fact is Geralt had walked that stretch of the track only moments ago and had not noticed the bear trap. Not noticed it until he’d heard the rusty mechanisms spring and then Jaskier’s blood-curdling scream.

But none of that matters now, because Jaskier’s fingers are slick with his blood and cling to his ankle. Geralt is beside him in a moment, Roach forgotten on the peak of the hill, and he tries to peel Jaskier’s fingers away from the wound.

Jaskier shakes his head, slaps his hand away and wails. ‘No, no, don’t touch, it _hurts_.’

Geralt grasps his shoulder as Jaskier tries to jerk away from his hold. It doesn't help and after a moment of struggling, Jaskier slumps against him and begins to shake. ‘Jaskier, I can’t help you if you won’t let me see it.’

His hands are shaking, tears stream down his face and he sobs in heaving breaths. Blood is staining his boots, his sock and Jaskier’s fingers as they clutch at the jaws of the bear trap.

‘Geralt, Geralt,’ he babbles and Geralt can feel Jaskier’s warm breath on the junction of his neck. ‘My foot. My _foot_.’

He looks down at Jaskier’s pain-stricken face. He’s done it for worse reasons, for more selfish reasons, and yet he still hesitates because this is Jaskier. And he's never - the thought has never crossed -

‘Jaskier.’ He jostles him until Jaskier’s looking at him, eyes blown out and wild. He’s breathing heavily. His body has gotten over the shock of the pain; the nerves severed, but he’s still bleeding profusely. The bear trap needs to come out and then the wound tended to. They’ll need to make camp somewhere after that, possibly make their way back into town. It'll hurt. It'll all hurt. 

‘I can take the pain away, Jaskier. Let me.’

'No, no, please don't take it out Geralt, it'll hurt. Please."

There’s no reasoning with him. Geralt’s not sure why he asked, he's lost to the pain and the fear and the shock of it all. He holds Jaskier firmly in his arms, concentrates, watches his eyes get wider, and then slowly, they begin to relax.

The wildness begins to subside. Jaskier’s breathing eases out. Geralt lets the magic leave his hand and places it over Jaskier’s heart, feels it flutter under his fingertips. ‘Calm now. You’re going to be okay.’

Bloodied fingers find the collar of his tunic. ‘Geralt, what if I never walk-,’

‘You’ll be fine.’ He pushes a little more magic through the bond and encourages Jaskier’s mind to relax further, to let him in just a little deeper. ‘Deep breaths. I’m going to remove the trap now. You’re not going to feel a thing.’

Jaskier nods slowly, now completely dazed, and Geralt focuses on the trap and not how Jaskier’s glassy eyes do something horrible to his insides. He’s used Axii thousands of times, but he can’t deny this is different. He can feel Jaskier’s breath, warm and even, on his cheek as he reaches down to inspect the bear trap. The teeth have sunk into his flesh, and save for the rust, the blades are smooth. The trap is old, likely placed a few months ago, and rusted from the rain. It opens with a little effort and he hears the visceral squelch of blood and muscle with it. Leaning down, he slips off Jaskier’s ruined boot and his sock to ascertain the damage. The leather of the boot had protected his ankle slightly, but the teeth have bitten deeply into the flesh regardless. He’ll need stitches, Geralt considers. And for stitches, he needs a fire, clean water, a camp, enough time to make a salve to ward off infection. Things they do not have. With a sigh, he ties Jaskier’s ruined sock over the wound to stop the bleeding.

Jaskier protests in his arms just as Geralt feel his hold on the spell begin to wobble and waver. He whistles over at Roach and the mare canters over. There’s a small vial of valerian root extract in his pack that’ll knock him out long enough for them to find somewhere to camp, and he lets a few drops fall in Jaskier’s open mouth. Then, with little effort, he hoists Jaskier into the saddle and grabs her reigns. His lute lies in the low grasses and Geralt knows he will not hear the end of it if it’s forgotten, so after stabilising Jaskier, he sweeps down to grab at it and with no other option, slings it over his shoulder and leads Roach on.

They walk for a while before finding a clearing off the hunter’s path that is suitable to make camp. They’re supposed to be tracking a griffin, following the well-trodden hunters' track to the last place the beast had been seen. Geralt’s not seen any evidence of a griffin or a nest, and it’s not like they’re known for their stealth, so he’s comfortable setting camp in the vicinity. 

There’s no stream nearby so he boils water from his second waterskin over the small fire and then begins preparing to sanitise the needle.

* * *

When Jaskier wakes, he feels a strange pressure on his foot. As quick as it comes, it’s gone again, and then strangely, back in a slightly different place. His foot feels warm, too, which is such a strange sensation to wake up to that Jaskier is convinced he’s still dreaming when he looks down to see his foot in Geralt’s lap, and the man gently kneading the arch.

‘Geralt, what in the world are you doing?’ he croaks.

‘Making sure you don’t lose your foot,’ he replies. ‘Move your toes.’

‘What?’

Geralt glances at him then, amber eyes shining in the firelight. Oh, it’s dark now, and they’re camping. Just a moment ago, he was sure it was early afternoon and they were searching for a –

Oh.

Jaskier tries to moves his toes and is pleased when they wiggle against Geralt’s palm.

‘Hm,’ he says, seemingly satisfied and moves his hand up to Jaskier’s ankle. The other man hisses and tries to pull his foot from Geralt’s lap on reflex, but Geralt grabs his knee. ‘Don’t.’

‘Fuck,’ Jaskier groans and lets his head fall back onto the bedroll. ‘How bad is it?’

‘Well, you’ll get your wish to ride Roach,’ Geralt replies. ‘Twelve stitches. Could get an infection yet. Need to keep circulation.’

He dips his fingers into the oil again and gently presses it into the bottom of Jaskier’s foot. He listens to the crack of the fire, the sound of crickets somewhere deeper in the forest and focuses on the gentle pressure of Geralt’s fingers on the arch of his foot. His head still feels a little fuzzy. Funny, he doesn’t remember passing out – but then, when has he ever? With drink, it’s common enough. He supposes pain is no different.

‘We’re going back to the village tomorrow,’ Geralt says. ‘I’ll hunt the Griffin alone. The Duke can give you a bed.’

‘But-,’ he hushes his protest, a kneejerk reaction to being told what to do. He blames his childhood on it, to be honest. ‘Fine.’

Geralt puts a fresh sock on his foot and places it gently on the top of a log. ‘Keep it raised to avoid swelling.’

Jaskier watches as Geralt goes back to the pot over the coals, stirring what looks to be a soup. He’s not hungry, but when Geralt offers him a bowl, he sits up on his elbows and tries his best to cradle the bowl. He almost drops it when Geralt sits beside him and encourages him to lean back onto his shoulder. With his ankle propped up, it’s hard to maintain a sitting position but resting against Geralt certainly helps.

‘How’s your head?’

‘No complaints yet,’ Jaskier replies and gets a jostle for his wittiness. Something warm blooms in his belly, but it could just be the soup; hearty in its earthiness and heavy with garlic. ‘It’s fine. A little fuzzy. I assume I’ll walk again?’

Geralt grunts in an affirmative way. ‘So long as you stay off it.’

‘Wonderful, then,’ he smiles. ‘Thank you.’

Geralt sighs and Jaskier knows the sound, know what it means. ‘There was nothing you could do, Geralt. I chose to come. I choose to come every time.’

‘Should have seen it.’

‘You were looking for a Griffin.’

Geralt looks at him. _Still_ , his eyes say. _Still_.

Jaskier puts his bowl down. It’s a warm evening; almost midsummer and the combination of the heat from the fire and the fullness of his belly begin to lull him to sleep. He settles back against Geralt and feels him adjust, and for a moment Jaskier thinks he will be gently lowered to the bedroll, but then his cheek feels Geralt’s chest – not his chest plate, but the warmth of his skin through cotton, the musky scent of smoke and day-old sweat.

‘Geralt,’ he asks as Geralt’s hand tucks a curl behind his ear.

‘Checking for brain injury,’ he replies and Jaskier stills.

‘Oh, you’re joking,’ he laughs and twists in Geralt’s arms. ‘You cracked a joke, I can’t believe it, really, it’s incredible – ow, fuck.’

He adjusts his posture and untwists his leg, and Geralt places an arm behind his head. It’s a strange position to be sitting in. He’s practically lying in Geralt’s lap while the other stares at the fire. With a long sigh, Geralt leans back slightly, resting his back against the tree and Jaskier fingers in his hair again. There’s no point in asking _what this is_ because he’s sure neither of them has the answer. So Jaskier settles more comfortably and looks up through the sparse canopy. He starts to count the stars, but the feelings of Geralt’s fingers in his hair soothe him, and the darkness of the sky seems to grow closer, the stars slowly dimmer, hazier between the spaces of his eyelashes. Geralt says something, low and soft, and the fireplace crackles again and Jaskier hears himself saying, ‘love you, Geralt,’ because he does - loves him as a friend, a companion, as a person, loves him in the quiet mornings and the wild, drunken nights, loves him in every way one can and should love someone they've known for ten years - and Geralt doesn’t hear it enough, and that hurts more, _lingers longer_ , than any other pain Jaskier’s ever known.

**Author's Note:**

> i wanted to add a lil sumthin-sumthin to this fic, but i felt like it didn't fit the story or where the characters were at as i was writing them. There's certainly enough of sumthin-sumthins in my other fics to make up for it though.


End file.
